Purification
by PeanutNanners
Summary: Gilbert lost everything. His brother, his love, his country. Hanging to life by a thread, lost on an unknown road. Who's there to give him a hand? RussPruss, RussUS, USUK, eventual FrUK. Rating may go up.
1. Purification

The bastard was standing there. Standing in a way so the smaller man was covered in shadow, cradling the damn vodka bottle like it was a child.

And, _oh God_, was he smiling?

The damn bastard was smiling at him. He was smiling at the bandages, the layers of gauze covering countless wounds, new and old, wrapped around the other man's tiny frame. His eyes were drawn half closed, the vodka only tugging them down further.

The room was silent; words were never needed in his house anyway. Long ago his throat had gone raw from words, and even now it still hurt. Pipes and bricks may break your bones, but words burn into your eyelids. You close your eyes and see them, staring back at you and your ugly little flaws.

"Now, now, dear Gilbert. No need to act like such a spoiled child. . . Mother Russia does not permit bad children." The smaller, weaker man squirmed as the handle of the pipe dug into his gut. He saw the end coated in layers of dried blood. A piece flaked off and fell to his stomach, where it laid silently. "You need to behave. . ."

With that, Ivan bent down and gripped the collar of the Prussian's shirt, raising him off the ground. "You need to be punished, as all bad children do." Gilbert bucked and roared and kicked at his captor, who just sneered and started taking long strides towards the door.

The door was usually closed, sealing off the memories that were meant to be forgotten. Gilbert often left other memories down there in the dark basement; the look on his brother's face, the wedding that was supposed to be for him, the disappointed smiles from his friends.

Gilbert was clawing at Ivan with his chewed down fingernails. He was kicking with his old shoes that were starting to break through on the toe. He was writhing with all of his strength and swearing with all of his soul. He didn't want to door to open. He didn't want to remember.

But the door was opening and the darkness was at his back and Russia was relaxing his grip, letting Prussia slip through his fingers and into the dark. He toppled down the stairs backwards, darkness hovering about him, waiting to pounce. The bottom of the stairwell greeted the back of his head with a loud _smack!_ He grimaced and hands flew up to clutch the sore spot hidden by his fair mop of hair.

And there were footsteps, walking down the stairs. There was a hand reaching out for him, and stroking his cheek gently. And there was a voice, gentle, purring dirty lies in his ear. The figure was getting closer and Gilbert could _smell _the vodka and when there were lips on his he could taste it.

The kiss was innocent enough. But then again it was _Russia_ kissing _Prussia_ in the basement and thoughts were soon in his mind, flashing things like '_this is sick and wrong'_ and _'the pipe- where's the pipe?' _And the Prussian who wasn't Prussian anymore pulled away and blindly kicked out.

Ivan smiled sadly, head cocking to the side. There were eyes tearing at him, saying horrible, ugly things. They were violating him with every glance- undressing and leaving him naked and cold and hollow. Gilbert tried to buck the larger wall of a man away, but there was a hand at his cheek again. "Ah, Gilbert. . . I have good news for you, da." His hand was moving upwards, tangling with fair locks. His fingers were massaging small circles on his scalp, smiling like a child.

"If it's coming from you then it's bad news, bastard!" There was more kicking and squirming and writhing from Gilbert, which gained a giggle from Russia. He suddenly clenched his fist around the small man's hair and stood up, dragging Prussia with him as he strode across the basement.

Gilbert roared angrily as his hands flew up to his scalp as he was pulled. "F-Fuck! Let me go, b-bastard!" His feet kicked and smashed anything in their reach, which was a whole lot of empty space. The whole basement was empty space, spare for the mattress in the corner that served as Gilbert's bed. That mattress was filthy- with blood and sweat and tears and horrible words and a terrifying, beautiful man. He was being pulled across the room and a door leading them into another, smaller room.

If the first room was dark, the second was black. No windows were on the walls. There was a large, black hook in the center of the ceiling. The walls should have been a nice, bright color. Ivan did love yellow. They should have been yellow, like sunflowers. But this was Russia and Gilbert was sure that much of what used to be inside him was now splattered against the back wall. It had trickled down and pooled at the floor, staining the floor a sickly red.

The door was closed and locked and Gilbert was thrown across the room; the concrete welcomed him into its cold embrace. He was standing up before he knew what was happening; before Russia's pipe had descended from the blackness and struck him on the shoulder, and he was on the ground again. "Bad." Russia steps forward and crunched and outstretched hand under the heel of his boot.

Gilbert hissed and punched Ivan's shin with his other hand. That hardly did anything, because the Russian was bending down and smiling sweetly, running a gloved hand across Gilbert's cheek. "You are very bad. . . Pity, since I had such good news for you. . ." He licked his lips. "Such a pretty face, da? That news will have to wait until afterwards, then."

Ivan was standing before Gilbert could blink, and the boot to his head was delivered before his could cover himself. There the Prussian was, head throbbing, staring up at the black hook with Russia's foot pressing down on his forehead. "Get off of me!" Prussia writhed and gripped the thick calf attached to the foot, pulling it off. He rolled over and scramble backwards, managing to move himself to the corner, red eyes darting about in the darkness.

From in the blackness came a childish laughter. "Why do you always move away from me? I only do this for you. . ."

Somewhere between the swears, screams and laughter, the inhabitants upstairs managed to settle themselves down for a nice cup of afternoon tea, and politely chatted about the weather, recent news, and how delightful Russia was in the spring.

///-\\\

The afternoon was not a productive one for Germany.

He was supposed to be writing of his recent trip to Berlin. The report was to be sent to America, who had, for the past decade or so, been breathing down the German's neck. He hadn't been able to do anything useful in the past years without America there to approve or stop it in its track. Then, of course, where Alfred was, Arthur was sure to follow.

Instead, he was hunched forward at his desk, papers scattered around his office. His broad, secure shoulders were quivering, and he was sure that something was wrong with him, because water was leaking from his eyes. It was rolling down his cheeks and splashing onto his papers in fat drops.

This was new. Germany never cried.

Not when his boss shot himself. Not during the trials, either. He had sucked in all the air his lungs could fit when his brother had smiled at him and promised that nothing was going to change. And even then, he didn't cry. What had he done? He'd gone back into his mind and stayed there, staring at the outside world in horror as his brother, his _bruder_, patted his shoulder and muttering something to him.

What was it?

Damn these blasted tears. They were fogging his mind too.

But the words Gilbert had said were still ringing in his head. He had placed a firm hand on his younger brother's shoulder and gave a squeeze. _"Hey, West. Just keep strong. The awesome me can get myself out of this. It'll all be okay. . ." _But by the end his voice had quivered and he looked up at his brother. _"Take care of Eliza for me. And make sure that aristocrat knows I'm coming after him. And West? You're tough. You can stay strong. . . You have to. . ." _The last part of his speech was hardly breathed, but Ludwig still managed to hear it.

Gilbert had taken a step back, then two, and then Ivan was at his side. The Russian had smiled sweetly and led Gilbert out of the room, with the eyes of all the worlds' nations staring after them.

Ludwig inhaled shakily. How long ago was that? The wall was still up. The skies were still grey. Meetings were still painful. And his brother was still missing. Sure, Ivan showed up to the meetings. The satellite nations accompanied him occasionally, though there was no word about the former state of Prussia. At least until about a week ago.

The last meeting was still sticking to the German's mind. Arthur and Francis had gotten into one of their fights again, and the other nations had leaned back in their seats, waiting for the scuffle to stop. Ludwig had let his mind wander. He stared at the seat next to him. It should have been occupied by his brother. His lithe figure should have been sitting there, feet propped up on the table, flicking balls of paper at the Hungarian across the table.

But there he wasn't.

Germany found his heart beating painfully in his chest. His right shoulder was throbbing, and without thinking he sent a glance Ivan's way. The large man was toying with something. It was small and hidden very well in his leather gloves. Ludwig squinted over his glasses, which were spending more and more time on the bridge of his nose, to possibly get a glimpse of whatever could be in the Russian's hand. It was probably vodka.

Ivan was now smiling, and he lifted a chain with his pinky finger. Whatever was in his hand was attached to the chain. A necklace? Slowly, painfully, Ivan was raising the necklace into the air. Ludwig's breath caught in his chest as the charm was hoisted up into the air above the Russian's cupped hand. And there it dangled.

The Iron Cross.

His _bruder's_ Iron Cross. Germany stiffened as Russia cocked his head to the side and watched the cross twirl. The chain slipped from his finger and the necklace fell down to the table with a sudden _clang_. The German across the room flinched, and the argument fell silent.

Ivan stared down at the charm and back up at Ludwig. His head lolled to the side a bit as an eerie smile slipped onto his lips. "Gilbert sends his best wishes, da~" he murmured in that child voice of his. Across the table, Germany couldn't bring himself to look away from the cross.

Alfred had piped up from across the room, wondering why the entertaining argument had gone quiet. "Hey, commie. Whatcha got there?" The American was leaning over his seat, eager to see what was causing the commotion.

Smiling like mother holding a child, Ivan picked up the Iron Cross and held it in the air again. "A gift from a friend." He said, and stood up, taking long strides to an open window. The day outside was grey, overlooking another generic city where people drove around in circles. Ivan had leaned forward on the sill, sticking his head outside and looking down at the ground, twenty stories below. Then he turned to the group, who was waiting for an explanation.

"But, alas, this friend of mine, he needs this no more." The Russian held an arm out the window, the Iron Cross hanging from his pinky finger. "He is gone now, da~." And with those final words, his wrist relaxed, and the necklace slipped from his finger and plummeted down to the ground. Grinning to himself, Russia slowly closed the window and locked it, then returned to his seat.

The silence that followed sucked the life from the German. He couldn't breathe.

Gone.

Gone?

His bruder, gone. Tossed out the window like his forgotten necklace.

Arthur crossed his arms and furrowed his massive brows, looking quite upset. "What did you do to him?"

Russia giggled. "I made him better."

Germany's body had taken control of his mind and gently lifted him from his seat. He had spilled out some half hearted excuse and quickly left the room. His legs had taken him down the hall and found a stairwell to hide in. He stood there, leaning against the concrete wall, staring at the ceiling.

And even then, he didn't cry.


	2. Unknown

One eye cracked open wearily as the man desperately to resist the urge to fall back asleep. He was tired- so very tired. Dark circles clung right below his lids, punctuating the dull red of his eyes; they no longer shown with the crimson rage as they had in the past. Gilbert missed those days and thought of them often; which was just as painful as the torture, as he became aware of how very weak he had become.

Where was he? This wasn't his room- too bright, too open, too warm.

The fact that he couldn't remember worried him considerably.

Gilbert tried to open the other eye but found it was swollen shut, and when he raised a hand to touch the area, it was tender and throbbing. A small groan escaped his chapped lips as he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Breath catching in his chest, Gilbert gripped the sheets and hauled himself upwards- it hurt- it hurt- _it hurt-_

What hurt, exactly, he couldn't tell. His arms and legs felt like useless pieces of meat stuck to his body just for the heck of it. His torso was covered with _fresh_ layers of bandages, carefully wrapped to cover the new wounds he knew were there.

His heart, Gilbert was sure, had stopped by now.

Whether he was alive or dead, it didn't matter. Everyone had forgotten he was there, stripped of his home and pride and name. All because a group of men said so. Signed the contract destroying Prussia- his _home-_ and sent him away. Arthur, Alfred, even _Francis_, a dear friend of his from past times, had grinned like devils as their names had been scrawled effortlessly at the bottom of the page. And _poof_- Prussia was now under Soviet control and he was dead and oh god he was so, so _alone_. If clustering was for the weak, he should have been the strongest of them all. He should have been. But then again, his logic had never been the best.

His eyes fell closed for a moment. He saw words, sounds, scenes from the past. All burning black holes into the back of his eyes, taking up residence in his empty mind. Too late to turn back; those thoughts were there to stay.

When ruby eyes opened again, they studied the room intently. It was new, but somehow familiar. It had a bed that could hold mountains under its sheets. A small table with a perfectly aligned chess set was nestled into the corner of the room. Walls of light tan boxed the room into a perfect rectangle, a door leading into the bathroom while another led to a closet. Light from the snow outside was filtering in through huge windows, leaving square patterns on a rug that looked ancient.

This was Ivan's room, no doubt. He turned his head and stared at the huge oak doors, trying to will them to open and free him from the horrors of his life. Gilbert frowned when they didn't obey his awesome command and decided he better get the hell out of there before that bastard came back.

The journey from the bed to the door had been an interesting one.

The thing was, it hurt.

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt so freaking bad. All over his body; everything.

Gilbert had to bite his lip and suck up whatever was leaking from his eyes and be the awesome guy he always was, except now he was tiny and so very hurt. The only sound that pulled him to that door was the dull, faint thumping of his heart as it cried out in pain, each beat a small whimper as more blood was unwillingly pushed through his arteries and veins and capillaries. How he wished he could just put an end to the damn thing, it would be so much easier than-

No.

Ivan was _not_ going to get to him. He was _not_ in control. And Gilbert was far too awesome to give into the vodka drinking, pipe wielding, sadistic, homicidal, smiling bastard. He could outlast that pansy any day.

But he was so very tired.

Taking in a sharp breath as his foot fell onto the rug, Gilbert slowly and _painfully_ made his way to the door, each step creating new shock waves that gnawed at nerves up and down his body. The bandages rubbed against him in such a way to just tug at the new forming scabs, peeling them from his skin slightly when he tried to take a bigger step. After long minutes of painful step after step, the albino finally made it to the door and with a tug, pulled it open. The hall was empty, which made travel for the wounded man easier.

The only thing Prussia found disturbing about the house was that it was so very quiet. Not a sound beside the rush of traffic outside and the silence that billowed in the empty space of the tall ceilings. No light, gentle footsteps of the Baltics. No sneaking footfalls of Belarus. Not even the bear-like tumbles of Russia.

The house shouldn't be empty. It should be bustling with residents. It must have been well past noon- afternoon tea should be made now. Yes, the tea. The warmth. . .Prussia's mouth watered slightly at the idea of filling his belly with warmth. Alcohol was out of the question, but if he could only get downstairs, then he could be warm.

Gilbert caught himself and frowned. Damn that cold Russian weather. Damn the emptiness of the landscape, the cruelness of the other's amethyst eyes, the terrible loneliness inside his own heart. It created a vortex; a swirling pit that cried for warmth and was hastily thrown a cold Russian embrace here and there.

What he craved more and more was rapidly becoming the warmth. Sure, freedom was great and all, but it was so damn _far away_. Freedom was meant for dreams now. Warmth was something here, something that was just a touch away. Gilbert's frown deepened, trying to building up the barriers around his usual iron will- No, stop it. Freedom is always the most important. You'll see your brother again. The wall can't stay up forever. You're too awesome and the wall is just a wall. It'll all be better soon.

It'll all be better soon.

He pushed on in silence, managed to trip down a flight of stairs and hobble down another, and found himself in the foyer. Wait.

This was wrong.

The foyer wasn't by the stairs. The stairs in Russia's house led down into the living room. Gilbert swung his head around and inhaled sharply. This was wrong. This wasn't the Russian's house. He was here, alone, at a strangers house.

Who . . .?

Who brought him here? Surely this was Ivan's doing. Some form of torture? Leave him injured in a house with no food? Gilbert checked the kitchen. No, that theory wasn't right. The kitchen was stocked with food; meat and wursts and fruit and dairy and it was all there. The ex-nation pouted and took a seat at the kitchen table, thinking as he chewed on the area by his thumb, creating a raw patch of mangled skin. Whatever that bastard had planned was beyond him.

How. . .? When. . .?

Prussia tried to think. Russia had been saying something about 'good news'. But that had been a while ago. Hell, he'd been preaching about how it would make things 'so much better'. The ex nation snorted. He'd said the same thing about the wall when it had been put up, and look where that had gotten them. Was this the good news? Isolation? Clustering seemed almost appealing to him at the moment.

He must have blacked out for a while. His awesome self would not settle for being brought to a strange place and left by himself willingly. Gilbert chewed at his bottom lip in thought.

Where. . .?

Sure, he was in a house. A strange house.

The Prussian stood up and shakily made his way to the window, bandaged hands barely ghosting the cool glass. He froze upon contact.

That skyline. Those people.

Berlin.

East Berlin.

A tiny whimper may or may not have escaped his lips as the hand fell to his side. There were people outside the house; there was a sky above and a ground below; there was everything. There was the wall.

And on the other side. . .

There was his bruder. His huge, wall of bruder. His tiny, blue-eyed, hurt and confused bruder.

There was everything on the other side. His everything was on the other side.

If he closed his eyes, he could picture it- ah, yes, there you are. All of them, sitting pretty, drinking afternoon tea in the German sun and chatting and sitting with their smiling faces to him, beckoning his tired frame to come, sit, drink. The way the sun would pick up on their faces. The German's, strong and secure. The Austrian's, polite and reserved. The Hungarian's. . .The most beautiful thing one could find. When that face smiled in his direction the world would open to him and welcome him and love him.

But that smile was for another, a gentleman with hair of chocolate brown, with a mouth pressed into a somber line. Never would that woman's smile be for him. And so the world turned its back to him and left him alone and hated him.

The Prussian's eyes opened. There was a sky above. There was a ground below. There was everything. And yet, for him, there was nothing.

---

The Russian watched his prey with hawk-like intensity.

Every movement made, every tiny gesture was analyzed, scrutinized, judged. He hadn't made any attempt to leave, yet. The bandaged man had just stood there, staring out the window blankly. How incredibly _boring_. Had the tiny ex nation given up so easily? This game suddenly seemed vaguely unappealing. The last thing he wanted was another ghost; no, he didn't want another Baltic to nod and comply and give in _so damn easily_. He wanted a fighter, something that longed to escape, so he could slowly clip its wings and watch it struggle.

And to his delight, Gilbert was a fighter. From the first second he had fallen under Ivan's control he had been fighting; he refused to leave on his own will, far too busy screaming nonsense at everyone, but then fell quiet and murmured words to his brother. Even then, he still had a fighting flare in those red eyes as they left the room silently.

Russia let out a happy sigh as he recalled the day when he brought Prussia home.

Oh, what a joyous day. His new bird sang such pretty songs. All of his pets sang for him; they barked and chirped and purred for him.

Russia had smiled on that day, ten years ago. He had smiled as Prussia cried for a certain brother. He had smiled when Prussia passed out in a pool of his own blood. He had smiled when that same Prussian swore at him mercilessly. He would always smile for his pet, for his sunflower.

It was really a shame that his sunflower never smiled back.

He had such a face; such a pretty face. Ivan only wanted that face to smile at him, smile for him. But no, it only cried and turned up in agony and _never smiled_.

How to make his caged bird smile?

He'd do anything for a single smile; he'd paint the sunflowers red, he'd turn his vodka into wine, he'd bring an eagle home to show his little bird. Prussia liked eagles, didn't he? Surely he had to; wasn't there an eagle on what used to be his flag? Russia thought. He thought of why his Prussian never smiled, of possible reasons. He was afraid? But what was there to fear? Oh, wait.

Prussia feared Russia; Gilbert feared Ivan.

People fear the unknown, yes? Maybe that's why people feared him; the always changing moods, the uncertainty of every word that past his lips. Russia was a bit of a mysterious fellow, even he accepted that, and he liked it that way. Having people on their toes was quite an enjoyable feeling; how he could frighten nearly anyone out of their boots with a single look. But that's not what he wanted this time; he wanted to smile and have a smile returned.

So, in theory, to eliminate the fear, he simply had to eliminate the unknown. All of the unknown, both good and bad, and there would be nothing to fear. His sunflower could finally smile for him. Russia pondered this; how would that perpetual frown look as a smile? He tried to picture it and shifted in his seat, leaning back into the plush of the armchair.

Ivan's eyes fell upon his sunflower again, in all his mummified beauty, standing by the window. The sunlight created an eerie glow on his snow white skin, but looking at his mangled masterpiece, the Russian couldn't help but feel his heart beat painfully in his chest. This feeling, this want for the man who he hurt so much, was dragging him into a cycle; he'd try to move closer, to touch Gilbert, only to be met with a mouthful of hateful words. That in turn made his temper flare and he'd lash out, then find himself in the same position hardly a week later, desiring from afar. How Ivan wanted to break the cycle, but keeping a grip on his temper was difficult enough, and vodka only loosened that firm hold.

However, he was also determined. Determined to see that smile, to see a change from the horrible grey frowns. So Ivan leaned back in his chair and spoke in a clear voice, breaking the barrier of silence and making his presence known. He would eliminate the horrible unknown between the two one way or another, but it had to start somewhere.

"My name is Ivan Braginski. I like vodka, borsch, and folklore. I was born in a very cold land, and have two sisters."

---

Alfred collapsed next to the tired form of his British lover, body slick with sweat, limbs fatigued by their previous activities. Their chests rose and fell in sync as their bodies, hot and raw and exhausted, finally started to come down from their euphoric high. He looked over to the flushed face of Arthur and smiled wearily, a hand reaching up to brush the sweaty bangs from his face.

"Princess," he cooed in a tired voice, referring to the Brit with the pet name he had made up when they first got together, not long before the Second World War started. For every hero, a princess; for every Alfred, an Arthur.

And the princess smiled back at his hero, and smile that was reserved for only one face, for only one emotion. Arthur poured his love into his smile and sent it in the American's direction. Had he known what the American did when the British princess was away, that smile might be reserved for another. Had he known who visited the hero on the weekends, he might have never smiled in the first place.


	3. Hope

It was another day in the land of the broken man. Night hung around the house like the cold sweat that hung to Prussia's brow as his back arched, peaceful sleep tormented by dreams of darkness and terror. His hands gripped the covers until his knuckles were white and cramped, a breathless scream bubbling in his chest. That foul mouth of his was curled back into a dreadful snarl that a certain Russian found rather "cute". And when he woke with a start, the scream made its way out, peeking through his lips and erupting into the stillness of the air in the room.

"**West-!**"

His own scream awoke him, and he blinked open delirious eyes to stare at the ceiling. Whose name had he just called? Surely it couldn't have been that brother of his; no, he wasn't allowed to think of him. '_You shouldn't bother yourself with sad thoughts, da?_' Ivan had suggested with a smile, '_And what a sad thing your brother is~' _Gilbert punched him in the face for saying such garbage. Ivan laughed.

He rolled over in the bed wordlessly, trying to fall back asleep. Russia's vacation house in Berlin had no basement, so Gilbert was allowed the luxury to sleep upstairs where the temperature was appropriate for actual living, not just surviving. The bed was comfortable and his feet didn't hang over the edge; in fact, there was more than enough room to fit another whole body, which left the small Prussian drowning in a sea of blanket and mattress. He should be asleep. It was late enough to be early. The bed was comfortably warm and the air was heavy with sleep.

But the dream was gnawing at the back of his eyelids every time they dared to flutter closed for a moment; a handshake between him and West. They were smiling, but the expressions were hollow. They were in a pit, a grave, and hands of their people were clawing out from the dirt around them, gripping and dirtying the cloth of their uniforms. Prussia looked up at the grey sky above the pit and suddenly saw the other nations holding white roses, standing with demonic smiles. Prussia had looked back to the bruder that should have been standing with him in that grave, but he was alone. The hands were clawing, digging at his uniform until there was no more to scratch but bare skin and then muscle and then bone. He bellowed and roared for help, for West to get him out of that terrible place. The only response he was given was the nations above shoveling dirt back into the pit, burying Prussia and his screams under six feet of cold earth.

"_No, I'm not fucking dead yet! You can't do this! Bastards, all of you! France, Spain, help me! Somebody! West! Bruder-_"

_Kolkolkol. . ._

Gilbert's eyes opened again. He sat up, suddenly determined. _Dammit, I'm gonna see West if it kills me._ And knowing what Russia would do if he was caught for what he was about to attempt, it was a very real possibility. With a shudder of mild fear, the ex nation swung his legs over the side of the bed, being as quiet as possible, so not to wake the sleeping giant down the hall. His feet touched the floor with hardly a sound and stood, hesitating as the silence of the house gripped him at all sides.

Prussia looked around the darkened room. Ways to escape: Door. Window. His list was two items long and looking very unpleasant.

The door option was currently off. The stairs were pass his captor's room, and there was no way in hell he'd be able to make it past there without making noise of some sort. The window, however, looked very promising at this point. Sure, he was two stories up. But gravity was never that important to someone as thick-headed as Prussia. And sure, he didn't have a coat and it was the middle of winter. But he was awesome, and that was enough reason to throw open the window and jump to the ground below.

Ouch.

Prussia stared up at the window he had leapt from, and at the time it seemed like a good idea. Now, when he was laying in a heap two stories below the open window, it seemed like something someone who wasn't as awesome as him would have thought up. The jump hadn't been a graceful or beautiful one; it involved the flailing of limps and a rather un-awesome squeak when his knee came in contact with the harsh ground. He blinked dumbly at the window before rising, knee throbbing. "Ow. Damn, that's pretty un-awesome." Indeed, his leg was far from awesome at the moment; the fall had torn a hole in the pants of his pajama pants, and the concrete had scrapped a few layers of skin off, leaving a raw, bleeding patch right on his kneecap.

But the goal of this midnight escape was not to stay in the back alley of some huge mansion; it was to see his bruder. With that final thought in his head, Gilbert started towards the wall with a slow pace. Moving his limbs so much was new, as was breathing in fresh air and _mein gott, _was that a breeze he felt? Air was moving past his face, pushing his hair away and stinging his eyes and filling his lungs and for a moment that eagle in him was spreading its wings to the night sky.

And then he saw the wall.

And then the eagle remembered the bear had tapered his wings. Clawed the black feathers clean off with its huge paws.

And then he knew he had to leave this crazy place right then and there or he'd go insane as well. He was running at full speed now, blindly pushing past those late night scavengers and occasional Russian officers who were drunk out of their minds, standing outside bars and smoking like chimneys. No shoes covered his feet, and the freezing temperature of the concrete under his foot stung when the skin made contact with it. But that was behind him now, and the wall was in front. The wall was there and his bruder and the world and his friends and freedom and everything was on the other side. To get to that place, to get over that wall, to get away from Russia, that was his goal. That was always his goal, it was something that he could plot and plan when he was left to his own mind.

But Russia was not one to leave the cage door open. The lock on the cage was the guards standing there, barbed wire, the guns. The communist men watched with a strange curiosity the man running towards them; was his hair white, or could it have been the way the moon shone tonight? Was he wearing pajamas? And why, for heavens sake was he running at the wall like his life depended on it? Their questions were left hardly answered when the man flung himself at the wall, barbed wire tearing at his clothes and then skin, fingers clawing at the concrete, screaming in torn German and English and Russian.

"West- West! Wo bist du? Someone- Помоги мне-"

Bam.

Thump.

Silence.

It had happened so fast; too fast. But Russia was somehow there with his pipe and eyes glazed over and that thick, sugary sweet smile of his. And when the faucet came in contact with the back of Prussia's head, it made the entire world shake. It made the city blur and the pain go away. The scream was loud enough to wake West and East Berlin before all the lights went out.

For once, Russia didn't know what to do with himself.

He sat by the bed, unusually anxious, watching the Prussian sleep. He watched the rise and fall of his torso as shallow breaths passed through those chapped lips that had, just hours before, been shooting out curses left and right. He watched those pale hands clench and unclench themselves in the sheets. Lastly, he watched the way Prussia's face turned up in pain as he dreamt; something about seeing the bandage wrapped so tightly around his head made Ivan's gut tighten.

Here Gilbert was, so vulnerable and worn out and hurt and it was _all his fault._ There was no one he could blame (except for vodka, but it was he who chose to drink that cursed, wonderful spirit) and so all he could do was sit there and wait for Prussia to awaken, because now he was determined. Because now maybe Prussia would listen, and would hear.

Ivan let out a long sigh and leaned forward in his seat. A hand reached out, hovering above the silver locks. He hesitated and pulled that hand back. "You'd move away from me if you were awake, wouldn't you?" There was no response. "I wouldn't hurt you. . ." Ivan shifted and looked away, memorizing the pattern of the wallpaper before taking a deep breath and looking back down.

"You ran away, Gilbert. You were very bad; I had to do something," He reasoned with the body on the bed, eyes pleading, searching the placid face for a response. "Are you not happy?" The Russian swallowed and inched to the front of his chair, knees pressing into the side of the bed as he did. "I'd do anything to make you happy, little one. You know that, don't you?" Something behind his walls snapped, and that something made his body tense and hunch over in the chair so he was practically leaning over Gilbert, hands gripping the covers. "So why do you run?"

"Why does everyone run from me?" Ivan tapped his foot impatiently, eyes wide and lost and absolutely _terrified_. He needed an answer, he needed _something_ or he would positively go insane, if wasn't already.

He sat that way for such a long time that his back was hurting and he couldn't feel his fingers any more. The sun had started making its way over the grey skyline and Gilbert still didn't wake. And when Ivan finally sat back in his seat and stared straight ahead, he started speaking again. "You say clustering is for the weak, da?" Lavender eyes flickered back down to stare at huge paws; no, they were hands. They were his hands, but they felt like a bear's paws. Was he a bear? "You said it when we were younger, I remember. You always sounded so sure of what you meant," Ivan tilted his head to the side, voice gentle and quiet. "But that was different, wasn't it? That was when you could stand on your own. Heh, look at you now."

He chuckled, a small, hollow sign of amusement.

"Can hardly be called a country. Wouldn't be alive without that wall separating you and your brother." Ivan paused and fingered the end of his scarf. What he had said was very true; after the war, when Prussia had been dissolved, he should have died. Russia took his land and his capital and his _everything_ and that meant he was nothing. But somehow he became East and Prussia became a ghost. And if that wall went away (there were rumors, words whispered, that it wouldn't last, but Russia knew those were lies and hopeless thoughts) then there would be Germany again. There would be Germany; a single country. There would be Ludwig, but Gilbert, Prussia, would be gone. He'd be engulfed by his brother's shadow and people would forget. Humans have a way of doing that, Ivan thought bitterly. People would forget his smile, his laugh, and his presence. They would raise _German _flags and boast about _German _pride.

That was exactly what Ivan was trying to stop. Why didn't his sunflower see that? Why didn't he see all the sweat and blood he put into the wall? Why didn't he see it was all for him? It was to keep him safe from the people who would forget and hurt and _kill _him. He promised to keep Gilbert in a golden cage where no one could touch him. Where that horrible _bruder_ of his wouldn't be allowed. He'd have the eagle all to himself, and he very much liked that idea.

"Do. . . Do you think. . ." Ivan hesitated and looked down. His hands gripped the scarf tightly as he buried his face in the soft material. Its comforting scent didn't seem to soothe him at all; he still felt sick to his stomach. "That you'd like to stop being alone?" His voice was tiny and could have belonged to a child. "That you'd like to stay with me? That we could be. . . friends?" Ivan's eyes traced the shadows on Gilbert's face, searching in vain for a sign that he had been heard. He hadn't.

He was weak; pitiful. Here he was, the fucking _Soviet Union_, nearly begging for the friendship, for the love, of a useless satellite country.

Russia sat there, waiting for his answer that never came. He waited for hours, and he would wait for days, for years, until Gilbert answered. Was he still afraid? Did he still not know enough to know that there was nothing to fear?

What else was left to tell him? Ivan's brows knit together as he thought. He'd actually managed to have a single conversation with the stubborn Prussian that didn't end with either lunging at the other's throat. It had been. . . pleasant. Yes, it was very nice to not fight. It had started when Russia found Prussia in his library, in his atlas to be precise, taking a red marker to the world and marking in sloppy German the places he'd like to invade. Russia, England, France, America, China, and Italy were just the first of several that the power-hunger man had set his sights on. Russia had been scribbled over until the marker bled through and stained the next three pages with its ink.

"_What are you doing?"_ The larger man had asked while leaning over Prussia's shoulder to steal a peek at whatever was the other had been so amused with.

"_None of your fucking business, commie! Go jump out of a plane or something, ya freak!"_ Gilbert had squealed and desperately tried to cover his secret plans; Russia finding out would seriously put a dent in them.

"_Da, Gilbert, no need to be so mean~ I just want to see. We all share in this house, remember?"_ Ivan had simply chuckled and swiped the large book away, eyes narrowing as he scanned over the page. _"Oh, I see you've found my atlas. And done some. . . strange things to it. What is this?"_ He pointed to a large circular blob that seemed to have a face of some sort.

Gilbert had spun around and looked at what the finger pointed at: a small (and rather cute) bird that he had doodled over the majority of Europe. He let out his trademark laugh at the other's obvious stupidity and shook his head. _"That? Kesesese~ that's my army of chicks! Obviously! For when I invad- I-I mean-" _He sputtered and shook his head, desperately trying to grab the book back. _"Shit! Ignore what I just said! G-gimme the book!"_

Russia was amused. His lips had curled up in a smile and he himself let out a small laugh, which only increased when he saw the look on Prussia's face. Oh _my_, it was priceless to see the self proclaimed 'awesome one' get flustered. _"Hehehe~ an army of chicks? Oh my, I am sure all armies will tremble in their boots. You will certainly be a force to be reckoned with, little one."_

Prussia's nose crinkled in anger; how dare that communist laugh at his awesome plan! It was bullet proof, he was sure! _"Hey! Shut up! It'll work because the awesome me can't fail! __**Hey!**__ I said to shut up!"_

After he had amused himself with the elder's childish drawings and plans, Ivan had handed the book back to Prussia. He needed a new atlas anyway; this just gave him a reason to finally get one. _"Of course it will, dear." _He watched the other reopen the book and examine it carefully; he seemed to forget that he was in the presence of the most threatening country in the world. And that he had so rudely vandalized a very expensive atlas belonging to said country. _"I've had that atlas for many years. It was a gift from one of my bosses, you know."_

That didn't seem to interest Prussia, whose gaze flickered up at the mighty Russian for half a moment before returning to the book. He sat himself down on the floor and Ivan sat next to him. _"Huh, really? Figures it was from one of your weirdo leaders. I can't read anything of this anyway." _Gilbert pointed to a sentence with his index finger. _"Honestly, look- there's a backwards three in here. How the hell can you read this language-"_

"_Cyrillic."_

"_Cyrillic. How can you read it?"_

"_Simple. It's like how you learned Old Prussian or German."_

"_But neither of those was as weird as this."_

Russia laughed, shaking his head. _"It is not 'weird', it is different. You are just not used to it, da?" _He pointed to himself. _"I learned it in no time; it is very easy."_

"_Doesn't look very easy. . ."_ Gilbert was pouting, and it had to be single cutest thing that Ivan had ever seen.

"_Look, I'll show you. It is quite simple once you understand it."_ He looked at Prussia and smiled, and it was a real smile: it was hopeful. _"__Пруссия."_

"_. . . What did you call me?"_

"_Пруссия."_

"_The hell does that mean?"_

Russia sighed; okay, maybe this wouldn't be as easy as he had hoped. But on the other hand, Prussia wasn't running away from him, nor was he trying to set him on fire. That itself was a huge accomplishment as far as Ivan was concerned. So he raised a hand and slowly, gently brought it to rest on Prussia's chest. He had felt the smaller man suck in breath and stiffen under his gloved fingertips, and he remembered the look of pure terror that passed over Gilbert's face for a split second before it was replaced by a serene one. _No, don't be afraid. I won't hurt you, sunflower._ He tried anyway, feeling the heartbeat under his palm.

"_Пруссия."_

"_Prussia. . .? Me?"_

Russia nodded and pointed to himself. _"__Россия."_

"_. . . Russia."_

"_Very good, little one."_

Russia shook his head at the memory; he remembered sitting there for the next few hours, pointing out every country the atlas had to offer them and naming each one for Prussia, reciting them until he had memorized all their names and left the library with a smug smile. He had chanted a tune of mixed Russian countries and German phrases all the way down the hallway, very proud of himself. Ivan had been proud of himself too; he had gotten closer to that which had eluded him for so long. He had gotten a smile out of the sunflower, and for a moment his heart had bloomed in his chest. It was warm, and it was beating.

The man swallowed and looked down at the sleeping body. Gilbert had smiled, _**smiled**_, in his house. It had to be coaxed and fed; yes, the Prussian's smile required complements and encouraging nods whenever he got something right, and gentle corrections when he didn't. He smiled because he was proud. Ivan had given him something to be proud of; and that thought made him want to give the ex nation so much more. He wanted to see the other man smile on his own. One day, he'd be the first one to smile. One day, Ivan would wake up with that smile greeting him.

There was hope. Yes, Пруссия, there was plenty of hope.

England was anxious. He was going to surprise his beloved by arriving three days earlier than planned, and his taxi had gotten lost on the streets of Washington DC. Of course the Brit thought it was absurd that someone could get lost in their own bloody capital, and he voiced it to the driver, who replied with a grunt and tapped the end of his cigarette against the dashboard. So now all he could do was sit back and cross his arms and stare out the window like a brain dead idiot. _I could really use a cup of tea right about now. . ._ He thought as he scratched the space behind his ear.

As the cab drove through the city, the Englishman observed the sheer amount of American flags strung about the building there; each must have each sported at least one of the grand banners. A slight blush wormed his way to his cheeks when he spotted that a small building carried the Union Jack, and stared down at his lap, trying to will it away.

Arthur had not planned on showing up early; he, being the overworking gentleman, found that his work for the week had been done, and instead of leaving on Sunday afternoon, he left late on a clear Friday night. Though completely terrified of planes, he resisted the urge to call America afterwards to be comforted, hoping to save the surprise. The strange thing was, his over enthusiastic boyfriend was always calling during the day, which was half the reason he always finished his work so late; even the hardest working person could only juggle so many things. That week, however, Alfred had only called him once. They'd spoke for a few moments before the American abruptly cut their conversation short and hung up. Appalled, Arthur tried to redial, but only met that obnoxious answering machine nearly five times before he lost his nerve and gave up.

_Probably too busy stuffing his face with bloody hamburgers to pick up his damn phone._

Arthur kept telling himself that, but the conversation still had left him a bit shaken. So by the time he _finally_ arrived at Alfred's house, paid the (overpriced) fee to the (stupid) driver and hauled his bags up the driveway, his heart was more than just racing. He wanted to see Alfred. He wanted to see his hero. He wanted to be wrapped in those strong arms and be swung around until he was dizzy and he wanted to be smothered with kissing until he couldn't breathe.

The front door was opened a jar when he finally got to it. Arthur hesitated before sticking his head in. "Hello?"

There was a muffled sound from the kitchen and the Brit rolled his eyes. Figures, that idiot was too busy stuffing his face to close his door. "Honestly, Al, people could break in if you don't close your door." Arthur dragged his bag in and placed it in the foyer before straightening his coat and striding into the kitchen. "What, not even going to welcome a guest? How rude can you get, you gi-"

Alfred looked up in surprise.

Ivan just smiled.

There they were; the two superpowers, one with Primorsky stuck halfway up his ass, the other grinning like everything was fine and dandy. Bent over the kitchen table. In front of Arthur.

"Oh my God." Arthur stared. He stared and couldn't move. This wasn't real; no, it couldn't be. That couldn't be _his_ hero with another nation. They hated each other, after all. Didn't they? Arthur remembered how Alfred had ranted for hours about how much of a bastard Russia was. He blinked, recalling the specific conversation. No, Alfred had never specifically said that he hated the other superpower. He just ranted.

"A-Arthur! It's not what it looks like- I swear!" Alfred said, trying to reach out to the statuesque man across the room.

The room blurred around him, and for a moment he was grateful that the tears were blurring this picture that was sure to haunt him for the rest of his eternal life. Was it quiet, or was that noise he heard the shattering of his pitiful heart as one of America's precious missiles shot right through him? He wasn't sure, but he was sure that there was bile in his throat and it was burning him. It was burning his gut and his heart and he was sure his skin was burning too, because his face felt hot and the tips of his ears were on fire. It was burning right through him, and soon, Arthur thought, his innards would only be a mass of burnt soot.

He took a step back from this nightmare. Ivan didn't stop his thrusts, which earned a small groan from the man under him. No, this wasn't happening. Those were _his _noises; Alfred made them for him and only him. He took another step, and another. His mind was gone by now. It shrunk back into his body, curling up into a tiny, pitiful ball and set the shell of a man on auto pilot. The nation felt raw and exposed and hurt as he turned and ran out of that dreaded house.

Arthur didn't hear Alfred's yells to him. He didn't hear them slowly shift from pleas for the Brit to come back to loud moans of pleasure. He didn't hear the small exchange of words after the dirty act was done and he didn't see the two nations slowly redressing. Arthur didn't see the exchange of money and he didn't understand why on earth a hero would ever break the princess's heart like that.

**Author's note: Let me just say that I am sooooo sorry for not updating faster. School is finally coming to an end, and I've been swamped with finals. I'll try to update more frequently throughout the summer, though. :D**

** Oh my. Seems Alfred has gotten himself in a bit of a pickle, hasn't he? I know it probably seems confusing at the moment, but I promise the plot will all come together in the end. Anyway, ****I hope you guys all like this. It's my first fic, afterall, so of course its not that good. . . But RussPruss is my OTP and deserves WAAAY more attention. So, let me know what you think!**


	4. Eagle

By the time Alfred had managed to hand over the stack of bills to the greedy Russian and redress himself, Arthur had fled the cursed city. It was such a nice place, he almost felt bad that he would forever associate it with the action he had just witnessed. He hesitated when he realized he'd left his bags at America's house, but hardly missed a step and continued on his way. He needed to leave, but had no place to go. He needed an umbrella, because it looked like it was going to pour any second. And damn, he needed a drink, because today was something he never wanted to remember. People sidestepped him on the street; he kept his gaze straight down on the sidewalk because he didn't want to have to think about where he was.

When there weren't eyes on him, he'd break. It was just a matter of time until the dams broke and emotions flooded his body and drowned him.

Oh God, he needed to find somewhere to hide. His stomach flipped and he gagged on the bitterness of the cheerful and light conversations of those around him. It was too sweet, too happy. He was upset; he demanded the world be upset with him. He was angry, and everyone else should be too. He was burned, burning, and it hurt.

And so Arthur found a hotel, found himself in the same hotel he'd always used when he visited. That was, before Alfred insisted the Brit stay at his house whenever he visited because _'Hey, Princess, my bed's comfy.' _and _'I never see you anymore, babe' _and _'Fuck, I miss you; I love you'_. But those words weren't keeping him there; now the man felt as though he needed to leave. He felt as though he was being choked by those once kind words, now turned sour and fat and heavy in his head, weighing him down and slowing his movements. By the time he got to his room his eyelids were drawn low over fogged emerald eyes, steps slow and sluggish. Arthur didn't bother with the lights.

The bed was there, and it was cold and welcoming. Shoes were removed, slacks and shirt soon followed. With an audible sigh, the Englishman fell onto the bed, and rolled himself into a nest of blankets. He tried to swallow, but the hard lump in his throat prevented anything that attempted to pass. He whimpered and dug his face into the soft, sterile pillows and harshly bit down on his lip. The pillows muffled his agonized mumbles of _why, why, why?_ and the blankets hugged him close.

_If Alfred wants to sleep around with Ivan, then it's his loss. It's his loss- his loss- his loss-_

No, it was Arthur's loss. Because if he lost Alfred, if he lost his hero, he lost everything. He lost those strong arms around him, he lost those quiet mornings with gentle kisses, he lost that bit of Alfred that was his, and only his. Alfred was the only one to hold his heart so completely, was the only one who could tear him down from the inside. That boy could break him so easily, and it was pitiful, pathetic. He was pathetic for offering his heart to such a young, foolish boy; being the wise 'old man' that he was, England should have seen something like this coming. He should have known that America, who was nothing more than a child (and oh god, that made it so much worse), would go and fuck this up.

So if he knew, why did he let it happen?

Because he was a masochist? Because maybe he just wanted to forget what the others said (_so young, so naïve, so wrong_) and just love. When Francis told him nothing good would come of their relationship, he _knew_ that it was going to go down in flames.

And so Arthur swore, screamed until his throat was raw and there was nothing left to scream about. It was night, and it was time to get himself together. It was time to forget, and Arthur planned on doing just that. He sat up and glanced over at the clock. Midnight stared back at him, and for a moment he wearily wondered how long he'd been in his pitiful, self-loathing state.

Maybe he'd go to America's house. But not to hear America's voice. He just wanted to know the feeling of having America under the heel of his shoe; what a rush that would be. It reminded him of his pirate days.

Maybe he wanted to hear Alfred beg. Maybe he wanted to see that cocky, so-sure-of-himself bastard on his knees, kissing his black leather shoes and making him Earl Grey every day. Maybe he wanted Alfred to plead and kiss his cheeks desperately, asking him _"Arthur, please, I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Babe, you know I love you. Honey, babe, princess. . . I love you. Don't be mad, please, don't be mad. Arthur, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It was an accident. I'm stupid. I'm sorry."_

England blinked and then frowned; he wasn't going to buy any of this crap. He was the fucking British Empire and he did not need some pitiful ex colony of his to survive. Rising, the Brit went to the bathroom to examine his appearance, and what a pitiful sight he was; hair messed, eyes puffy and red, and that scowl that made him look so much colder. In a huff, he grabbed the room key, redressed in a sloppy fashion, and left without his coat.

He was moderately happy that the night was just as dark as he was at the moment. As he had predicted, it was raining, and it wasn't pretty or romantic or meaningful; it was dreary and cold and very agitating. And yet, the only good bar he knew in the area was far enough away that by the time he arrived, the already fuming nation was even angrier and soaked to the bone. The bartender raised an eyebrow at the man as he cleaned out a mug, and asked in typical bartender fashion, "Rough night?"

England snorted and ordered a scotch. It burned his raw throat, but he liked it. "You have no fucking idea."

The portly bartender nodded and didn't prod further. Arthur silently thanked him and returned to nursing his drink. Five more followed, and the Brit was feeling lighter and yet sat heavily on the stool, hunched over the wooden surface of the bar, grumbling at his pitiful life and horrible ex lover and anything his mind would . "Bloody 'ell!" He declared to the few people in the bar and pounded his forehead against the bar.

"Damn idi't. . . Leave m' 'lone. . ." The nation slurred his words terribly as his thumbs kneaded into his temples in an attempt to clear his thoughts, but to no avail. He ordered another scotch and downed it like water. Alfred was clogging his brain when all he wanted to do was forget and drink himself so far into oblivion that he would lose himself, even if only for a little while.

Fuck, it _hurt._

Even with the numbing scotch there, it hurt.

Arthur chewed the inside of his cheek raw and tasted the sharp, metallic blood on his tongue. Where to go now?

The nation withdrew into himself and blinked. He should try and talk to America about what happened, about what it meant for their relationship, and where they went from there. Yes, he'd go to the other's house the next day, they'd talk over coffee and tea (England never drank coffee and America would laugh at him), England would apologize for running out and overreacting, and America would apologize for everything. They'd sit in silence for a few minutes and then have wild make up sex on the couch. Everything would be normal again, and England would forgive America like the gentleman he was. England would forgive America because he was a nation and they were allies and they needed each other. Politically, this would be hardly a pebble in the road of their relationship. Politically, this didn't matter, as long as the two were still allies and still against the Soviets. It was just an accident, after all.

Arthur nodded; he would go and talk to Alfred.

Or not. He snorted, ordered another scotch and blissfully toasted to sweet isolation.

* * *

Long before the war started, before people had tanks and U-boats, Prussia had birds. And he had them everywhere; they followed him when he went out, some riding in his hair, others following him in a straight line. Some were canaries, others were chickens. But his favorite was the eagle; grand and beautiful and grand, just like Prussia was. With dark feathers, it was almost identical to the one that so proudly flew on a plane of white and black over the castles and battle fields and homes of Prussians. And as far as Gilbert was concerned, it was almost as awesome as him.

The eagle had been a gift from one of many who wished to get on the current king's good side. However, the nation had taken a liking to the tiny bird and claimed he would raise it to be strong and rather awesome. And that he did; the chick grew up into a proud creature, and took to the skies with a beak pointed towards the sun, bright and gleaming in the afternoon. It even accompanied Prussia into battle on one occasion. He had watched it fly with a mixed feeling of jealously. What he wouldn't give to be free as the eagle was; to be relieved of all the unfairness a nation had to go through and just _live, _and live happily. But he couldn't, he wouldn't, leave behind his people like that, no matter how much he wanted to.

Prussia knew why he kept the birds, even if he wished not to admit it: they needed him. Hell, they loved him; the birds followed his every move, craved his attention and snuggled up to him while he slept. They were warm and innocent and needed him there, and unlike the rest of the world, they liked him. They liked his presence, and didn't call him a 'nuisance' or a 'wasted piece of land'. Admittedly, Gilbert didn't go around like the other nations did, asking for affairs and alliances and marriages. No, he wasn't a pansy like that aristocrat and his crazy, pan-wielding wife. He didn't mind being alone either; as long as he had his birds and his country and his pride, he was more than happy.

But now?

Now all he had was his pride. And even that was hanging by a thread; one didn't retain much pride while begging at the feet of another for mercy.

Proud or not, it was easy to say Gilbert was miserable. After he woke up with the worst headache of his life (even worse than that one time Denmark and England came to Oktoberfest with him and Germany) he found himself having trouble remembering things. Nothing to be completely worried about, but small things that he should have known, like Old Fritz's favorite food and the face Austria made when he had been pitifully defeated by the might of the Prussian army. Even his earliest memories were somewhat hazy, and that left the ex nation a bit unnerved; those were the few and faint memories he had of Germania, and it bothered him that he might lose those precious things.

With a loud groan, he sat up in bed and immediately felt the bandages. They were wrapped firmly around his skull, covering what he assumed to be a large gash on the side of his head. Sure, he could have laid in bed all day, but had a word or two to say to that Russian idiot, and damn, he planned to say them. The world spun as he stood, and the man nearly tumbled to the ground but caught himself on a chair that had been moved to sit next to the bed. Gilbert blinked. Odd, when did he put that there? He couldn't recall doing so and bit his lip. Had Russia been sitting there? Had he been watching him? An involuntary shiver ran down his spine and he swallowed, shakily making his way to the door.

After an unsteady trip down the stairs, Gilbert expected to find the Russian in the kitchen, cooking up a pot of borsch with a merry tone in his voice and a smile on his lips. What he found was surprising; Lithuania standing at the sink, washing the dishes with a small smile on his face, as if remembering a pleasant memory. Upon hearing someone entering the kitchen, the brunette glanced over his shoulder for a moment, before returning to his cleaning. His smile had vanished as the ex nation stood in the kitchen, confused and expecting an explanation.

"What are you doing here? You're never at the Berlin house," Prussia grunted, slipping into one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table.

"Mr. Russia had to go to a world meeting at Mr. America's house. You've been asleep for two days. He didn't want you to be alone here, so he sent for me to come and stay with you until he returns," The Baltic nation stopped cleaning the china and turned to Prussia, who was fidgeting with the table clothe lazily. "Which should be in about four days if all goes to schedule."

Gilbert was uninterested in this. It was bad enough being stuck in a house with a psychopath, especially a drunken one, but at least there was always something to do. Whether it was getting beaten to a pulp (which wasn't fun at all, but it was time consuming) or finding places to hide, Prussia was kept on his toes when Russia was around. And no matter how much he hated himself for thinking it, the man's presence did make shivers shoot up his spine. On the other hand, it was horrible being stuck in the house with a boring maid/manservant, as there was absolutely nothing to do but clean and sit on his awesome ass.

"He left you a note." Toris's voice brought Gilbert from his thoughts, and crimson eyes flashed up to see a plain white envelope tossed to him. Greedy hands reached out to snatch it from the air, tore it open and ripped out the letter inside. It was printed on official looking paper and even had a governmental seal on top, along with some writing in that weird alphabet that the Prussian had no hope of ever reading without someone's help.

_Малютка,_

_If you are reading this, that means you didn't get a hemorrhage after all! How delightful!_

_Ahem._

_First of all, I apologize for leaving on such short notice. It was rude of me, but I had no choice if I wanted to make my plane on time. Being late is very rude, wouldn't you agree? But in all honesty, I would have liked to stay a bit longer, because you are simply too cute when sleeping (even if you do have a concussion) and I was quite enjoying the view. But don't fret, because I'll be home soon! That pesky meeting should only take about a day, but I would like to do some sight seeing, so I shall be staying there for a few extra days. Don't be sad, I'll make sure to make lots of borsch when I get back; I know you like to eat it when it's cold outside._

_Secondly, I have to ask that you don't pull any stunt like you did two days ago. Your pretty little head was already beat up enough when I left and I don't want to come home to see you missing an eye. It should take you a few weeks to fully recover, if my predictions are correct, so be sure to relax and get plenty of slee__p. Oh, and don't forget to keep changing the bandage; when you fell, you got a rather strange cut on your head._

_I also purchased a new atlas, since you so kindly tarnished my old one. This one's in German, so hopefully you can understand it!_

_Be sure to take care of __yourself! I'll see you in a few days, Подсолнечник._

_-Ivan_

Gilbert growled and crumpled the carefully written letter in his hand. Stupid Ivan, he _had_ been watching him sleep! Feeling as though he would never sleep peacefully again, the Prussian tossed the paper ball to the floor and pressed his bandaged forehead to the cool surface of the table. He'd also been called 'cute', which was not only insulting, it was mildly disturbing; the last thing Gilbert wanted was a person like Russia taking interest in him. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he decided immediately to forget that letter ever manifested in his hands.

He sat like that until his back started to ache and the other man had long since returned to his chores. He floated around the house, dusting furniture and bookshelves like a ghost, separated from everything and barely even there.

"Mr. Russia must really like you."

Brought out of his doze by the clear voice, Gilbert looked up at Lithuania and snorted. "Yeah, we're best buddies. Couldn't you tell by the bandages?" His glare shot daggers into the brunette, though he seemed to be completely unaffected.

Toris shook his head, a small frown on his lips. "You know he can't help that. Its how he deals with things he can't control."

The Prussian quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward, elbows rested neatly on the table top. "He beats the shit out of them with a pipe?"

The Baltic nation sat at the sturdy kitchen table that could have supported half the world if need be. "That's not what I meant, Gilbert," Said man rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the tablecloth. The two were silent for a decent stretch of time before Lithuania tried talking again. "Mr. Russia just has a difficult time dealing with you. He thinks the only way to get you to listen is by beating some sense, quite literally, I might add, into you. It's not like he enjoys it."

This quickly drew the attention of the albino across the table, who glared at the Lithuanian with brilliant red eyes. "How the hell would you know?"

"Trust me; I've seen Mr. Russia's bad side. I've been where you've been, I know how he thinks. And he doesn't enjoy beating us," A pause, the brunette sighed. "But it's the only way he _knows_ how to deal with people like us," There was another, considerably tense silence before Lithuania continued. He seemed nervous and jittery, as if Russia himself might pop in and hear every word of their conversation. "Iv- I mean, Mr. Russia is trying to change. I talked to him before he left."

"Yeah? And?" Prussia was trying to fake an interest in the cabinets, even though his hands were fisted and his brow twitched involuntarily.

"H-He said you tried to run away again. He told me how he had to order this special beer from Prussia that you liked and find all these weird ingredients to make that Soßklopse you wanted. And he's really trying to make you see that he's not all bad."

Feeling something stir inside of his gut, Gilbert frowned, a disgusted look on his face. "I know I'm pretty awesome and all, but why the hell would Braginsky do that for me? "

Toris gave a small nod, blue eyes hopeful, voice soft and encouraging. "Because he likes you. He wants you to see that."

Another long period of silence passed between the two before the albino abruptly stood, palms slapped down on the cool wood of the table. "That's a load of bullcrap. That bastard is a freak, and we both hate each other." With that, Gilbert spun on his heel and marched out of the kitchen. The walls around him started to close in as he strode through the house, the shadows growing darker and meancing. In the back of his mind he heard Lithuania scamper out of the kitchen and follow after him all while babbling nonsense and lies that an awesome guy like himself didn't plan on buying any time soon.

Prussia bit the inside of his lip and growled. He needed out, and he needed out _now_. How could a scrawny man like Toris keep him from going? Russia wasn't even on the same continent any more and that was enough reason to grab his boots and the huge jacket he was forced to wear and head straight for the door. There was tugging on his sleeve as the Lithuanian tried to stop his movements, all of which he ignored.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. Now, get off of me." With a sharp yank, Prussia's arm was free of the brunette, who wisely took a few steps back as he saw the expression on the ex nation's face. A mocking smirk spread on his lips as he approached the door and opened it. "Don't worry, it's not like I have anywhere _else_ to run to." With that, Prussia was outside in the freezing air and the incredibly bright light. _Ouch_. Had the sun always been that big? Maybe he needed to get out more.

Squinting, Prussia got away from that fucked up house as quickly as possible, pulling the hood of the jacket over his head. On any other day, the albino would have loved to feel the breeze through his near silver hair. However, on that particular day, he wanted to blend in. He watched the streets full of sad, lonely people (_his_ sad, lonely people) in their old cars and pathetic buildings. He saw the longing, infuriated glances at the wall and could feel his heart beat painfully with every step he took. This was supposed to be him, these were supposed to be his people, and yet he felt so incredibly _lost_ as he wandered through the streets.

They all felt German to him; not Prussian. They were foreign and they were his bruder and not him not him not him. Was he nowhere? Had he been forgotten by all beyond that cement wall? Prussia zipped up the jacket as far as possible and jammed his hands into the pockets. His breath came out in tiny wisps, crimson eyes flickering up to the clouded sky.

He stopped walking and thought of birds. He thought of the freedom they possessed just by spreading their wings and fought back jealously. In an almost childlike act, Gilbert lifted his arms from his sides and shook them, as if flapping his 'wings'. Nothing happened, just as expected, but he was left with a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. He thought of freedom and how he could almost feel himself get lighter as the burden of the world was lifted from his shoulders. But that was just out of his reach and his body ached too much.

Those thoughts bothered the ex nation a bit too much, so he drew away from them and thought of other things. Of kings and Königsberg and cigarettes and alcohol and of course he thought of Ivan. An involuntary shiver crawled up his spine. They hated each other. Hated, hated _hated_. There was nothing more to what they shared; a mutual dislike that asked of nothing except more wood to stoke the fire of their hate for the other. It had been a silent law when the Russian's curious hands once dipped below his belt that they would never go further than that. The rules were set, and up until that point, Gilbert hadn't thought deeper into their relationship.

But now the gears were turning and his brain had charged full speed ahead into those foreign thoughts. The Prussian's hand traveled up to touch the bandages. Those had been the first he had to wear in a month. Russia hadn't harmed him because hadn't needed an excuse to use the pipe. And while that was always a good thing, Prussia couldn't help but feel a bit unnerved. He thought of the proud smile the lumbering bear of a Russian gave the Prussian when he presented wursts to the ex nation. He thought of the hours he spent with his awesome nose buried in books full of Russian ideas and Russian words all done by Russian authors. He thought of the time Russia dumped his favorite scarf on Gilbert's shoulders when he had gotten cold. It had brought butterflies to his stomach.

Oh, no. He wasn't losing his steel will, was he? He wasn't fighting back as much; he was learning Russian and speaking less and less German. A flame of rage flared up, licked at his insides and burned him. "Ha, good one! I am the awesome Prussia! I don't give up!" He spoke to no one but the words still came out.

Ivan hated Gilbert. Gilbert hated Ivan. That was that. There was no room for _like_ in that equation.

That was a joke. It had to be. Prussia and Russia would always hate each other. They were enemies. Enemies don't like each other. Just look at England and France. Turkey and Greece. Russia and America. He and Ivan were no different. After a moment's thought, Gilbert realized in horror that both Francis and Arthur _and_ Sadiq and Heracles had slept together. On multiple occasions. As for that annoying American and Ivan, he didn't know. But something about the two of them together tugged the corners of the Prussian's lips down for a moment. He swallowed and shook his head; he didn't give a fuck what that commie bastard did with that idiot. Why would he?

Gilbert walked and thought. He thought and walked. He stopped thinking and walked more. He stopped walking and thought more. More and more and more thoughts. Gilbert lost himself in a city that was supposed to be his heart, his soul. The picture he saw was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Prussia found himself on another no-name street where Soviet and East German flags were flown. There were no Prussian eagles to be found.

* * *

It was a bet. A mistake. He was sorry, sorry, _so _sorry.

Alfred didn't mean for it to happen. He never meant for _England_ to find them. But then Russia had zipped up his pants and accepted the money with a smile, and cheerfully pointed out that this was all a part of the bet, of their little game. A game that the United States was currently failing at. A game that started when the Russian arrived three days earlier than expected with an extra bottle of vodka that had Alfred's name on it. It stung and burn as it went down, but he smiled through it anyway because he was the hero.

Turns out, Alfred couldn't handle his vodka very well.

"_Take 'em off, Ivan!"_ A semi-drunken shadow of himself had pleaded a calm faced Russian, fingers dug into the belt loops of the huge nation's pants.

"_Frisky, aren't we?" _Ivan had received a whine and another tug as a response. He sighed and threaded his hands in America's golden hair, and somewhere in his expression was longing. Alfred assumed it was for him. _"What would your beloved Princess say of this?"_

The terribly young nation had frowned and cocked his head to the side, sitting on the Russian's lap with a pout. _"That ol' man? He doesn't have to find out about this, does he? It could be our secret."_ What a compelling argument.

"_Someone will find out. It would look bad for you; you're in a 'special relationship' with England, correct? Little Arthur would not be pleased if he found out."_

"_. . .You wanna bet?" _A lopsided grin sprang to the American's face. He ground his hips downwards, trying to get some reaction out of the Russian. _"Yeah! I bet we won't get caught! Fifty bucks. We won't get caught."_

"_Hmm. You seem so eager about this, young one. I hope you know what you are doing, because I plan to take full advantage of this situation. If we get caught, it's on your shoulders."_

"_Whatever, man! We won't get caught!" _With that, the self proclaimed hero crushed his lips against the Russians and it all went downhill from that moment.

After Arthur ran out, the two rival superpowers sat at the table and America and pounded his forehead against the cool table. Russia asked him what on earth he was doing and why he'd do such a silly thing. He stared in disbelief. "Did you not just see that? Arthur saw everything! You and me! Holy crap, he saw _everything!_"

Ivan raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his vodka. "It's on your shoulders, little one."

Alfred was mad. Mad at himself for being such a shitty hero. Mad at Ivan for bringing his vodka and lavender eyes. Mad at Arthur for seeing it all. He was getting no pity from anyone. Ivan was right; the situation rested on him now.

The sad thing was that he had made no move to stop this from happening.

* * *

**Author's note: Ha! I updated it! 83 Thanks to those who have faved my story, and to those who just read it also. Please leave a review if you have anything to say! I don't bite much.**

**Thank you!**


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